


wouldn't you like to know, knight boy?

by theantepenultimateriddle



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Gen, [writes a dumbass fic and then posts it]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24892660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theantepenultimateriddle/pseuds/theantepenultimateriddle
Summary: In the eight months that Mordred has been a Knight of the Round Table, he has never taken off his helmet.Quite frankly, it’s starting to drive Lancelot and Tristan a little bit batshit.--A fic about Lancelot and Tristan making bad decisions in a quest to figure out what Mordred looks like.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 99





	wouldn't you like to know, knight boy?

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking for me to finish my long fic: I'm working in it! I wrote this to try to get out of writer's block and I think it worked, so... yay? This work is for fun so it's not necessarily good or in-character or reflective of my actual thoughts, it's just a good time.

In the eight months that Mordred has been a Knight of the Round Table, he has never taken off his helmet.

Quite frankly, it’s starting to drive Lancelot and Tristan a little bit batshit.

“I’m  _ telling you, _ Lancelot,” Tristan says, for once not looking like he’s about to fall asleep, “he’s not human! He’s made of moonlight! Have you seen how his eyes glint at night? Gawain's the sun, so Mordred has to be the moon. It's poetic symmetry."

"Keep your voice down," Lancelot hisses, glancing around the trees they're standing behind towards the clearing where the other knights-- including Mordred, who is still behelmeted-- are setting up camp for the night. When he's satisfied that none of them are listening he continues talking, his voice lowered. "If that were true, he'd get stronger every time the moon came out, like Gawain does with the sun. Except he doesn't. Or at least, if he does then I haven't seen it. Have you?"

"...No," Tristan admits, reluctantly. He sighs, reaching up a hand to push some of his long, red hair up out of his face, where it falls back almost immediately. "But admit it, you don't have a better theory."

"Hey! I do have a theory, and it's better than yours," Lancelot says, straightening up slightly in indigance. "I think..." he hesitates, suddenly realizing that what he's about to say might sound even less plausible. But Tristan is looking at him expectantly, so he swallows and keeps going. "I think that there's nothing under the helmet. He's just an enchanted suit of armor."

Tristan snorts. "An enchanted suit of armor who became a knight? I'll make sure to put that idea in my next ballad. It's absolutely inspired."

"Okay, Sir "Poetic Symmetry"," Lancelot says, rolling his eyes. He looks towards the campsite again, gauging its time to completion, then at Tristan. "Come on, they need our help--"  _ my help,  _ he means, because Tristan's rarely very helpful at work that doesn't involve music or archery-- "and we've been gone too long already. If we're lucky, maybe he'll take his helmet off to sleep." He steps out from behind the trees and heads towards the others, and Tristan follows him reluctantly.

—

Mordred doesn't take his helmet off that night when he sleeps; when Lancelot gets up for his watch, Mordred’s lying on his back with all of his armor still on, perfectly still from the time Lancelot wakes up to when he goes back to sleep. It's slightly unnerving and does absolutely nothing to dissuade his "Mordred is a sentient suit of armor" theory, which up until then had been at least half a joke. But even when they have breakfast in the morning, Mordred refuses to take his helmet off to eat-- though it doesn't escape Lancelot's notice that some of their dried meat is already gone, and so is some of the cheese.

That’s when the curiosity really starts to pick up. It was one thing to theorize with Tristan when they were bored, but now, well…

—

Lancelot stares at Mordred across the table one day, watching him pile his plate high with a bit (or more than a bit) of every dish that passes him. He already knows what Mordred’s going to do, but it’s still a disappointment when he decides he’s finished constructing his meal, picks up his plate, and walks away to eat elsewhere.

As Lancelot settles back into his chair to eat he feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and when he looks up he sees Agravain staring in his direction with cold, pale eyes and a completely dispassionate expression. It takes a second for Lancelot to follow his gaze and realize that Agravain isn’t looking at him, but at Tristan, who’s sitting next to him and, as usual, mostly ignoring the plate of food in front of him in favor of staring moodily off into the distance. He seems unaware that he’s captured Agravain’s attention, and Lancelot inhales through his teeth before making the conscious decision to look away. He turns his focus onto shoveling down his meal as quickly as possible, just in case Agravain decides it’s not just Tristan he’s interested in.

As soon as he finishes his meal and gets up, Agravain picks up his plate and moves past him to sit in Lancelot’s empty seat, his gaze never wavering from Tristan. Lancelot winces on his way out.  _ Sorry, Tristan. _

He’s around the corner and about halfway down the hall when he hears the sound of light, running footsteps behind him. “Sir Lancelot! Sir Lancelot, wait!”

Lancelot stops, and a tiny, blonde head appears at about chest-level to him. Gareth looks up at him, her green eyes bright even though her face is set in a look of concern. "Sir Lancelot, are you feeling okay? You left so soon, I was worried something was wrong."

Lancelot actually laughs at that, his whole body relaxing as he looks down at her. Gareth perks up when he does, and he reaches out and pats her on the head, prompting a giggle. "I'm fine, Gareth. Just tired. I was going to head off to bed."

His words prompt a suspicious eyebrow-raise from Gareth. "Reeeeally?" she asks, drawing out the word in clear suspicion. "And it had nothing to do with how you were looking at Mordred?" Her face breaks into a smile that is both shining and mischievous, and a rock materializes in the middle of Lancelot’s gut. "What's so interesting about my brother, Sir Lancelot?"

"Nothing," Lancelot says, but his voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again, trying very hard not to sound like he's been watching Mordred like a hawk for months to figure out if he's actually a human being. "Nothing, Gareth. I was just..." A light blinks on in Lancelot's head as he says it, and he trails off before picking back up. "Gareth, what does Mordred look like? Under the helmet?"

If anyone would know what Mordred looks like, it's probably one of the people who grew up with him. Gareth, out of Mordred’s four siblings, is almost certainly the one who's most likely to tell Lancelot anything, considering how she's almost a sister to him as well. But instead Gareth's eyes widen, and she takes a physical step away from Lancelot so she can look up at him more clearly. "Why?"

The smile is gone now, and her voice is almost wary. There's a look on her face that Lancelot can't quite pin down-- uncertainty, maybe? Anxiety? Whatever it is, it locks down Lancelot's at-first-joking theory into a certainty.  _ There's nothing behind Mordred's armor. _

"No reason. I was just... curious. But if you don't want to tell me then that's fine, don’t worry about it--"

Gareth grabs his arm, cutting him off. Her face is still serious, but a different kind of serious. "I can't tell you what he looks like, Sir Lancelot. Not that he's bad-looking or strange or anything! I just really, really don't think he would want me to." Gareth swallows, her teeth tugging on her lower lip a little bit before she starts talking again. "But... could I give you a little bit of advice? If that wouldn't be too invasive," she adds quickly, letting go of his arm.

Lancelot lets out a long breath, his anticipation going out of him all at once like a candle flame being blown out. "Yes, of course you can," he says, carefully keeping his voice level despite the only thought in his head being  _ Dammit _ . "I'm always interested in what you have to say, Gareth."

It takes a second, but the smile starts to spread across Gareth's face again, but it's different now, more earnest. "Okay," she says. "In that case... Sir Lancelot, I think your best chance at finding out what Mordred looks like might be to ask him yourself. If his interest in you is mutual, then I'm sure he'll tell you!" Gareth reaches up and pats Lancelot on the shoulder, then lowers her hand. "I'm going to my room now, Sir Lancelot, but I wish you all the best!" Then she starts trotting away happily, leaving Lancelot standing behind her.

It takes a few seconds after Gareth has disappeared for Lancelot's brain to process what, exactly, has just been said. When it does, he pauses, his brow furrowed. "...What?" _ I can't ask Mordred anything, but why would he have any interest in seeing my face? He sees me every day. What did that mean-- _

"Lancelot." Tristan's voice comes from behind him, interrupting his internal questioning session. He turns to see Tristan looking upset in a manner decidedly different from his usual theatrical sadness. "You betrayed me and my confidence and left me behind. How can I ever trust you again?" Lancelot opens his mouth to answer, but Tristan holds up a hand. "No, don't say it. You left me behind at Agravain's mercy and we both know it!"

"Agravain doesn't have mercy," Lancelot says. He turns and starts to walk again, leaving Tristan to keep up. “What did he want to talk to you about, anyways?”

Tristan grimaces as he half-walks, half-jogs to keep up with Lancelot. “He… wanted to discuss Mordred with me.”

Lancelot glances towards Tristan, raising an eyebrow. “Discuss what about Mordred?”

Tristan swallows, and Lancelot could swear he sees a blush start to come to his cheeks. “Whether or not I have romantic designs on him.”

At that, Lancelot has to stop, trying to avoid choking on his own spit. Through a half-closed throat, he manages to sputter out a question. “He thought you had  _ what?!” _

Tristan lets out a dramatic, pained noise and slumps against the opposite wall, drawing his hand across his forehead. “I know. I believe it’s because we’ve been trying to figure out—”

“--the helmet thing,” Lancelot finishes, straightening up. “Yeah, I know.” He pauses for the second, remembering, and then the blood drains from his face.  _ If his interest in you is mutual.  _ “Oh, Jesus, I think Gareth thought the same thing about me.” This time it’s Tristan who makes the choking noise, his eyes wide. They stare at each other for a second, mutual horror on their faces, before Lancelot puts his head in his hands. “We need to stop doing this.”

Tristan blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s for a moment, then nods. “...But we’ll still keep an eye out, correct?”

“Yeah,” Lancelot says, finally resuming his walk towards his quarters. “Keep an eye out. Just get ready to pay me my dues if it turns out I was right.”

—

“So,” Tristan says, a few weeks later, “I talked to that girl.” He punctuates the sentence with a few notes from his harp, and Lancelot turns from cleaning his sword.

“Which girl?” he asks. “There are a lot of girls.” 

Tristan sighs, doing his best to sound as put-upon as possible. “The girl Mordred was with, a couple of nights ago. The barmaid? Remember her?”

Lancelot groans. “Seriously? I thought we agreed we were going to stop snooping! Do you want Gawain to decide you want to date Mordred too?” There’s a beat of silence before Lancelot sets his sword down next to him. “Did you learn anything?”

“Yes and no,” Tristan says, playing a few more notes. He makes a face. “She was very… complimentary… of him. She also said that he insisted on her wearing a blindfold before taking off any piece of his armor.”

“...So, basically, you learned nothing except things I really, really didn’t need to know, and then you decided to share them with me.” Lancelot shakes his head. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it means that you can’t be right,” Tristan says primly. “If he was a set of enchanted armor, how would he be able to take off his armor? He wouldn’t!”

Lancelot opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it again. “Okay,” he says, after a second, “maybe he’s not just the armor, but he could still be invisible.” 

Tristan makes an indignant noise and sets his harp down. “Well,  _ first  _ of all—”

The argument lasts well into the night, and in the end both of them go to bed unsatisfied, with no conclusion reached.

—

Chaldea is both strange and familiar— strange because it’s so different structurally from Camelot, familiar because there are so many faces he recognizes. Gawain, Tristan, Bedivere, Merlin, they’re all here, all together again. But there are ones that are conspicuously missing, and those are the ones he dreads. Two of them in particular, in fact. So when he hears that another member of the Round Table has been summoned, those are the only two names going around and around inside his head.

_ Gareth. _

_ King Arthur. _

_ Gareth. _

_ King Arthur. _

It’s late in the evening that day when he finally decides he’s going to go to the kitchen to see if there are any leftovers. Lancelot walks through the halls cautiously, trying not to make a sound as he approaches the cafeteria, just in case the specific someones he’s thinking of somehow hear him. After a few minutes of walking he starts to relax; no one else is in the hallways as far as he can tell, and dinner was hours ago, so no one should be in the kitchen or the cafeteria either. It’s enough to allow him to let his guard down, at least a little— which is his mistake. Lancelot has only just started walking more normally when a familiar voice comes from behind him, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Lancelot, you bastard,” it says, “I can’t believe you had the balls to show up  _ here _ of all places!” 

Lancelot’s heart plunges into his stomach as he stands, motionless, before slowly turning around. As soon as he sees the face of who he’s speaking to, he knows he’s right. His King is staring back at him, and— and— and she’s  _ judging him,  _ finally, like he’s always hoped she would. His dread is almost immediately replaced with a feeling that isn’t quite relief, but it’s close enough, and he’s already started moving to kneel before her when he realizes that something’s not quite right. 

For one thing, the hate-filled scowl on the face looking up at him isn’t like any expression he’s ever seen the king make before. The hair is different, too— rather than the smooth, styled hairstyle he’s seen before, the blonde mane of the person he’s looking at has been drawn back into a messy ponytail, strands sticking out in various directions all over the place. The red outfit they’re wearing  _ definitely  _ isn’t like anything like the king’s armor. None of the pieces are coming together— until the person speaks again, and Lancelot finally places the voice. 

“What the hell’s that look on your face?” Mordred asks, crossing his arms belligerently over his chest and lifting his chin. “Cat got your tongue?”

Lancelot could  _ slap  _ himself. Of course. Of  _ course  _ Mordred would look like the king— he was the king’s son. How could he not have thought of that? How did he genuinely think, for  _ months,  _ that Mordred was a suit of armor?!  _ Stupid!  _ But Mordred’s still just standing there and glaring at him, so Lancelot stammers out a response. “Sir Mordred, I— I didn’t recognize you. I haven’t seen you without the helmet before.”

The anger on Mordred’s face is replaced by surprise for a brief second, his cheeks coloring red, before going back to the scowl. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going to focus on, the fact that this is the first time you’ve seen my face?” He snorts, his upper lip lifting in disgust. “This might be rich coming from me, but you’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Yeah. Yeah, Lancelot knows.


End file.
